


Three-sentence TMA ficlets

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Web Martin Blackwood, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21886210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 7
Kudos: 80





	1. Workplace Morale (dubcon, tim/web!martin)

The soft sound of a mug touching wood has Tim snapping, "I don't want this." 

Martin takes a step back and raises his hands. "It's just tea."

Tim scowls. "It's never just tea. Not anymore."

Martin has the nerve to look hurt. "Oh come on, Tim. Haven't things been better?"

Tim considers the archives' state of late. Nobody's seen Elias. Sasha's hair has been darker, and she's been wearing glasses. Jon has been smiling, and looking rested, but his movements are jerky and the smiles look unnatural on his face. "No," Tim says. "They haven't."

When Martin's hands land on Tim's shoulders, Tim doesn't stiffen. He can't find the will to. 

"You're tense," Martin says. Perhaps the worst thing is that he sounds genuinely worried. "How about some stress relief? You haven't been as social as you used to be." Martin isn't talking about going out for drinks and they both know it. "Can I help?"

Tim's about to snap that Martin can help by leaving him alone, by leaving all of them be, but he's abruptly too exhausted. 

"That's right," Martin says, coaxing. "Isn't it better to rest? Just let me take care of everything."

Despite everything, despite the fact that at times it seems like his eyes have more than one pupil, Martin's not unattractive. Tim used to try to hit on him. He surmised that Martin felt so uncomfortable about being hit on that he pretended he noticed nothing at all. 

Now Martin urges Tim to stand up, to take off his shirt. Tim might as well. It's easier than putting up a fuss. "How do you like it?" Martin asks, slightly anxious. Like all he wants is to make Tim happy.

In a crooked, twisted way, Tim suspects this is the truth. 

"Bend me over my desk," Tim says. It's not his first choice, and that's a small satisfaction. He can still lie. 

Martin's hands feel good on his sides, over his back. Martin's big. His physical presence used to be comforting, before... Before. Now there is still an echo of that comfort. 

Tim closes his eyes as Martin prepares him, Martin's large hand warm on Tim's cock. 

"How do you want it?" Martin asks again. 

Tim breathes out. "Hard." He doesn't want it to feel good.

Martin makes it good anyway.


	2. tim/martin, under siege

The only tea mug that isn't dirty is the cracked one that has given Martin bloody scratches before. Martin looks at the full sink with dismay. Other people get scratched by pets, or boyfriends, or at least plants - something alive - and then there's Martin Blackwood, bleeding on cheap ceramics.

"If you keep wandering around in your pants," an amused voice cuts through Martin's reverie, "someone's going to take offense."

Martin yelps and drops the mug. It breaks cleanly in two along the crack. Martin stares at it mournfully. "It was the last clean one," he tells Tim, who is stood in the entrance to the kitchen. 

Tim sighs. "Sit down, will you? I'll wash us some mugs if you'll make the tea, how about it?"

Grateful, Martin sits himself down. His gaze lands on Tim, and he idly admires the lines of Tim's shoulders. He'd seen Tim shirtless a few times. It was a very nice picture. 

"Wow, you're out of it," Tim says, handing Martin two clean mugs. "The kettle is boiling, go on."

"Sorry! Sorry." Martin gets up and manages not to break any additional kitchenware. He rather sleepwalks through making the tea. 

"I don't mind," Tim says, leering benevolently at Martin's bare legs as Martin hands him his cup. "It's a nice view." 

Martin blushes. "Be careful with that. Someone might think you're serious."

He raises his eyes to meet Tim's appraising look. "Who says I'm not?"

"Oh come on," Martin mumbles, furiously red. "Don't tease." He averts his gaze.

But when he looks again, Tim's brown eyes are warm and focused on him. "No tease," Tim says. "No hard feelings, either. Yes or no?"

For a breathless moment, Martin is speechless. The entirety of his mind is occupied by question marks and exclamation points. Tim gives him time, though, looking indulgent and amused under the weariness that they're all carrying around these days. 

Finally, Martin manages a nod - a tiny movement, but Tim catches it even so. Tim catches _him_ , rises smoothly from his chair and pushes Martin against the kitchenette wall with a gentleness that makes Martin's breath catch.

"Oh," he says, once they've broken apart for breath, feeling sluggish and stupid, close to humiliating himself by the prickling in the corner of his eyes, by the straining of his erection. 

Tim cups Martin's cheek in his hand and draws him into another sweet kiss. "It's fine. Just relax and have fun, okay?"

Dizzily, Martin considers that if Tim's always like this, it's no wonder people are lining up to be with him. He's beautiful, yes, but besides that his kisses are generous and his hands are soothing. They make Martin calm down almost despite himself.

It makes him want to make it good for Tim. Worth his while. And so he shuffles down to his knees. 

"Well," Tim says, sounding impressed. "Not what I was expecting, but I can't say I mind." He helps Martin undo his jeans button, push down them and his pants in one movement. Martin's first thought is that Tim's dick looks comfortable: not small, but not so big as to be intimidating. A good size to have in his hands, or his mouth. 

Martin goes ahead and tests that theory.

He finds himself moaning without intending to, and blushing at the sound he's making. It's just been so long since he was so close to anyone, like this in particular but also in general. Tim's stomach radiates warmth against his face and Tim tastes - human. Ordinary, everyday, a bloody miracle in this world they inhabit. 

Tim's hands settle on his shoulders, nice and gentle. Martin pulls back, breathless already, to say, "You can pull my hair, you can f-fuck my face, I like it."

At that, Tim makes a low, guttural noise, and takes Martin at his word.

It takes Tim a while to come. Martin doesn't mind, he's the opposite of minding. Every moment this goes on is a connection. If his jaw and his knees ache, that's well worth the experience. When Tim does come, Martin feels a pang of something like victory.

He pulls away to look at Tim slouched heavy against the wall, eyes half-lidded. He looks satisfied. Martin fumbles his way back to standing up. 

Tim stretches like a cat that just woke up. "Give me a minute, I'll do you back."

"I'm good," Martin tells him, treasuring the warmth still pooling in his stomach. "I'm good."


	3. Cocoon, NONCON, web!Martin/jon

"And we never saw her again," says the man sitting across from Jon. His name is Keith Bergeron, and he has tears trailing down his face. He has long since stopped struggling against the cobwebs that bind him to the chair. 

"Statement ends," Jon says, with a little relieved sigh. Jon doesn't have webs around him. Jon never struggles anymore. 

Martin undoes Mr. Bergeron's bindings and tells him to go home. There's a brief moment when he can tell Bergeron wants to struggle, yell, demand to know who they are and why they wanted to hear about his daughter's disappearance. But the will to survive wins out, and Bergeron runs. 

Martin turns his attention back to Jon, who is messing with the papers on his desk and muttering to himself. Martin feels a swell of affection when he looks at Jon, like he always does. 

There's a measure of pride to the feeling, as well. Jon looks better than he has in months. Moving him back to live statements has done wonders for his well-being, and Martin's been making sure he sleeps and eats - both statements and human food - regularly. "Did you enjoy your meal?" Martin asks. He doesn't really need Jon to answer. 

Jon does anyway. "I did." A frown mars his brow. "But..."

Weary dread grows inside Martin. Not this again. "But?"

"I don't think I should do this," Jon says. "I don't, I can't remember -- people were angry. I shouldn't."

Martin sighs. "Jon, we've been over this. You need to eat. Everyone needs to eat. Your needs are just a little... Unorthodox."

Jon's mouth begins to set, mulish, so Martin sighs again and puts his hand on Jon's forehead. "You need to eat."

Jon blinks. "I need to eat."

"You'll let me take care of you?"

"Yes." 

Even knowing Jon couldn't answer otherwise, the word sends a wave of warmth through Martin. He can take care of all of them now, keep them safe. They need him, Jon most of all. 

It occurs to him that Jon needs another kind of attending at the moment. 

The webs he weaves around Jon, now, aren't physical. There is nothing visibly keeping him still, keeping his sight and hearing muffled. The webs are there nonetheless. "Martin?" Jon says, unsure. 

"Hush. I'm taking care of you." Martin undoes Jon's zipper. 

For a bare moment, Jon thrashes, as though Martin would hurt him, as though Martin wanted anything other than for Jon to feel good. It would be almost hurtful if he didn't know Jon didn't mean it like that. "It's just me," Martin says. "I'm allowed."

The bright strings of desire that Martin can pull in others don't exist in Jon, but Jon can still be made to enjoy himself. Martin can give him pleasure, can and does take Jon's cock in his mouth to suck it. 

Martin entertains hazy daydreams. Jon returning the gesture, Martin making it feel as good to him to give as to receive. Martin could do that. Nerve endings are just another web. 

But Martin wouldn't do that, even if it's another way he can give Jon pleasures he wouldn't otherwise know. Martin doesn't remember why the line is set there, but he remembers that it's very important.

Jon comes in his mouth silent and motionless, because Martin didn't pay enough attention to make him squirm and moan. Martin straightens his clothes out for him. "Tea, love?"

"Yes," Jon says, like he always does. 

Martin goes, casting about in his mind for the next person he can maneuver into the archives, who will tell Jon their story, unable to control their own words or movement, terrified and bewildered. Martin doesn't like to hurt them, of course, but everyone needs to eat.


End file.
